


Peripheral Vision

by sandy_s



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-19
Updated: 2015-09-19
Packaged: 2018-04-21 11:16:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4827062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandy_s/pseuds/sandy_s
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Disclaimer: I own nothing. All belongs to Joss.<br/>Rating: PG-13<br/>Spoilers: Post-Chosen and AU after that with references to NFA occurring in the future...not as soon as it did on AtS.<br/>Summary: Set over twenty years in the future. Other POV. S/B...<br/>Dedication: This is for Yani (ghostgirl13) because I promised her something for her birthday, and although this probably isn't what you wanted exactly, it's what came out right now.<br/>And it's also for afteriwake because I promised her some Spuffy, too.<br/>Finally, this is for Sandy (myfeetshowit) because I was rereading old fic of mine and found this reference to Alice in Wonderland in this story that I began a while back. Thought you might like it.<br/>Author’s Note: I started this story, wrote part one, and set it aside. Then, when my Oma passed away, I wrote the rest of it to help process my feelings about her death.<br/>Runner Up for Best Original Character in Round Five of Sunnydale Memorial Fanfiction Awards...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

_Sometimes we have to ask the tough questions to discover the truth. And sometimes we only get to the answers by looking out of the corner of our eye._

“Uncle Giles, did Mom love my dad?” 

The question is simple, and it’s one I’ve asked in the past, but the man I call uncle looks distinctly uncomfortable. We’re sitting in the lobby of Wolfram and Hart, waiting to go to dinner with our friends and family. I’m graduating from college this weekend, so Uncle Giles is in town for the big event. I never see him except when he comes to visit from England, and of everyone, I know he will tell me the truth. . . with nothing held back. 

So, I have to corner him when I can. Phone calls to England are a big no-no. Don’t ask. It’s a long story.

Uncle Giles sweeps a hand through his gray hair and pauses halfway as if tempted to remove his glasses. Aunt Willow always tells me to watch for glasses cleaning because it means that he is trying to avoid something. 

In the end, he doesn’t take them off and decides to say, “Your mom loved Angel very much. You should ask him about it.”

Without hesitation, I call him on the cop out, “No! Not Dad. . . my *real* dad. . . Daddy.”

Sometimes if I’m really quiet and center myself, I can smell my father’s scent when he lifted me up and tickled my belly with his nose. In my mind’s eye, I catch a glimpse of a wide grin and fathomless blue eyes. . . eyes that match my own. . . . His eyes always held a bit of sadness. . . sadness I was always able to chase away when I lifted my arms to him.

When I re-focus on the present, Uncle Giles is looking at me. . . really looking at me as if trying to detect something. “So, is this what a degree in psychology has done to you?”

He’s teasing, and I offer up a grin. “Uh huh. I ask tough questions at all the wrong times now. . . at least, according to all the polls, I do.”

“And what makes you ask this now?”

“Ah hah! You’re not getting out of my question,” I insist, moving from my chair to sit beside him on the sofa. I lean my head on his shoulder. He can’t resist that.

“You didn’t answer mine,” he returns. 

“Which one?”

“The one about why you’re asking.” His eyes sparkle at me, and I hug his arm, placing my hand in his. The touch isn’t strange; after all, he changed my diapers and played dolls with me for hours when I was little.

“Because big events always make me think about them. . .”

He leans his head atop mine, and a rush of love shoots through me. “Your parents?”

“Yeah. I wish they could see me. . . you know? And I wonder if they’d be proud of me.” 

Uncle Giles doesn’t hesitate, “I have no doubt that they would be very proud of you.” 

We sit in relative quiet for a moment, watching men and women in business suits exiting the building with relief on their faces. Another workday is over, and it’s Friday. It doesn’t mean I’ll let my questions go unanswered.

“So,” I repeat, “did Mommy love Daddy?” There’s a reason I’ve phrased the question this way. 

He sighs. “Their relationship was definitely. . . unique. And your father loved your mother very much.”

I release his hand and lean back and away, so I can confront him. “What kind of answer is that?”

“A very accurate one.” He is amused, and his amusement pisses me off. 

“That’s not very helpful,” I huff, crossing my arms. “You didn’t even answer the question I asked.”

“And you’re just like both of them,” he concludes. 

“Can’t you give me anything more than that?”

“Why don’t you ask your dad.” He nods to Angel who is striding our way. 

I stick out my tongue at Uncle Giles and give him a new name: “Chicken.”

* * *

Wesley has a gift for me. 

We’re back at Wolfram and Hart after my celebratory dinner, and he’s trying to find it for me. It’s obviously not going to be a vial of my favorite perfume that Fred always makes me, or a gift certificate to my clothing store of choice.

Nope, Wesley is digging something out of the large mystical maze of files and objects that only he can sift through.

He often gets lost in the bowels of the law firm and loses track of time. This one time, he literally did forget how much time had passed and came out weeks later, gaunt and dirty with a scraggly beard that made me run and hide. To this day, he still teases me about how loud I screamed. 

Hey, I was only four-years-old at the time.

“Wes?” 

“Almost found it.” He gives a grunt like he’s pulling something loose. 

My patience is draining away, and I shift from one foot to the other, trying not to  
peer too hard into the shadows. Things I don’t want to know about lurk in the darkness in this place, or they used to. “What could you possibly be giving me from Wolfram and Hart’s evil library from hell?”

Wesley chuckles as he reappears from the stacks. Dust is coating his salt-and-pepper hair, making him look older than he really is. He slips the bifocals from the end of his nose so that they catch on the chain he wears around his neck. “You know very well that the law firm’s not evil anymore. Now, there’s an introduction to this.”

“There is?” I’m skeptical as I regard the slim, tattered volumes he holds with such reverence.

“Yes. Don’t look so doubtful and impatient.” He shakes his head, but his eyes are sparkling. “You’re just like your parents; I mean, Buffy and. . . Spike.” His voice hesitates over Spike’s name, but it’s familiar, so I don’t tend to question it.

“I am?” I am delighted to hear such news and more than a bit surprised. My parents have often been the topic of stage whispers and surreptitious glances. Wesley knew them both, but he’s never mentioned them except in a passing story or two. 

“You are. They were always raring to go, jumping into a fight without regard for planning. You’re just like them.”

I think back over some of the choices I made in college. . . things I wouldn’t want my dad. . .Angel. . . to find out. “Everyone says that. Makes sense.” Then, I change the subject before Wesley can ask what I mean, “You know, Fred has told me a number of times that you weren’t always the most Mr. Guy-Who-Plans-Everything-Out-Precisely.”

He clears his throat and averts his eyes. “She did?” 

Mentioning Fred always flusters Wesley. Something happened between them a long time ago, and I don’t have a clue what it is. Nowadays, they avoid each other like the plague. It’s pretty easy to do in a law firm the size of Wolfram and Hart. 

“Uh huh. When I had nightmares as a kid, she would tell me about adventures you guys had before I was born.” I smile at the memory of Fred’s long, dark hair encircling me like a waterfall as she leaned over me, smiling and weaving stories to distract me from the literal or figurative monsters in my room or in my head. I grew up with a lot of demons, and despite her small frame and sweet, airy nature, I always felt safe when Fred was around. 

A bit jumpy, Wesley blows the dust off the files, and we both cough in the resulting cloud. “Sorry,” he mumbles. 

“It’s okay.” I rub my stinging eyes. “What’s my gift now?”

“Well, I spoke with Giles at dinner, and he suggested to me that you’re ready.”

“Ready for what?” Does this have something to do with my parents?

“Ready to read. . .” Wesley opens the cover of the top file with flourish, and I catch a glimpse of what looks like Uncle Giles’s precise, neat handwriting. “. . . the Watcher’s Diary of a Slayer by the name of Buffy Summers and. . .”

Even though I’m 21-years-old and technically an adult, I shriek with joy and throw my arms around Wesley who accepts my enthusiastic embrace with a grin. 

“Now, remember, these contain some pretty serious stuff. . . stuff we didn’t feel you were ready to know about your mother. . . Angel. . . and your dad. If you have any questions, Giles and I will be here to answer them. After all, as Watchers for your mother, we can interpret some of the things that would be. . .”

I raise my hand to stop him. “I understand,” I say with solemnity. “I will bear what you say in mind.”

“You deserve to know the truth of how things played out.”

“How did you get them? I mean, wasn’t a lot of stuff destroyed?” I don’t know all the details, but I’ve pieced together vague events from hearing people talk over the years. 

“Evil law firms apparently have everything of importance on file. . . even the ‘good guys’’. . . stuff. And we inherited it.”

“Wow.” Not caring that my new blouse is getting dirty, I clasp the worn books to my chest. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re quite welcome.” He puts an arm around me as we head out of the immense storage area. “Now, what’s this I hear about some sort of graduation pre-party with cake?”

“And pointy hats? And more presents?” I ask.

He jabs a finger into the air and winks at me. “*That’s* the one. Let’s go.”

* * *

Auntie Willow runs her slender hands through my long, honey-blond hair, letting the slightly split ends linger on the edges of her fingers.

“What are you thinking about, little one?” Her wide green-brown eyes are ringed by wrinkles from smiling and laughing. I’ve always admired her for them. Now I know laughter wasn’t always at the forefront of her emotional repertoire. Somehow knowing the truth about her doesn’t make me think less of her, especially after the way I’ve grown up. . . surrounded by bizarre creatures and unnatural events. If anything, I respect her more for her perseverance, and if not for her difficulties with magicks, I wouldn’t even be here, being that my parents shared their first kiss under her spell.

I blink. “Nothing.”

Willow sprays my hair down with a bottle of water. “Now, for some reason, I don’t believe that.”

Sometimes I think that Willow is psychic, but then again, maybe she’s just extremely sensitive to vibes people give off. “I’m just nervous about this evening.”

She hoists the dryer and peers at me with a look that’s penetrating even in the mirror’s reflection. “It’s more than that.” She purses her lips to let me know that I’m not changing her mind. 

But in keeping with her nature, she doesn’t press. She begins blow-drying my hair, and I relax against the back of the chair, relishing the luxury.

Auntie Willow used to style my hair when I was little, and I always associate her with the smell of her special herbal shampoo and the whir of the hairdryer. When I was ten, she moved to England to study her craft, and I missed her ministrations. This morning, she’s fixing my hair for my evening graduation. 

And I’m trying to figure out a way to ask her about my parents. After all, she can probably tell me more than any old documentation of the facts. 

I spent most of the night reading the records Uncle Giles left about my mother. I grew up knowing about the existence of vampires and demons, so the behavior of my biological father and my adoptive father didn’t shock me. 

However, my mother’s reactions to the two vampires in her life surprised me, and part of me wondered how much Uncle Giles’s writings were colored by his own feelings regarding my mother’s choices. Angel was portrayed in a black-and-white manner that I know is inaccurate while my real father came across as more of an enigma. . . a dangerous *creature* whose actions Uncle Giles couldn’t explain. 

Very little was included about the opinions of Xander, Willow, Anya, Tara, and Dawn, and there was nothing after my father’s death in the hellmouth.

All in all, the writings left me with more questions than answers. 

For one, what happened to my father after he burned to a cinder? How did he come back? How was I even conceived? Was my father even human? How did my mother go from despising him to being close enough to him to have a child?

Admittedly, these are questions I’ve had before, but I’ve never persisted in my pursuit of the answers. An orphaned girl has too many distractions when raised by a vampire and a hodgepodge of unrelated relatives plagued with their own supernatural struggles.

The tiny machine goes silent, and Willow fluffs my hair. “You read Giles’s journals, right?”

I study her expression, which remains decidedly neutral. “Uh huh.”

She plugs in the curling iron. “You have questions.” She’s not asking me.

“I have an observation,” I reply.

Willow parts my hair, dividing it into sections and layers. “What’s that?”

Waiting until I have her full attention, I say, “Everyone made mistakes, but in the end, love and forgiveness always won out. Does that sound too trite?”

Willow’s eyes light with something I can’t label, and her hand brushes back the hair hanging over my right shoulder. “You got that from Giles’s writing?”

I play with the hem of my skirt. “Well, no. He reported the facts and his feelings about things but not many details about how the rest of you felt about what was happening.”

“Then?” She’s holding her breath, and I realize how much she cares about what I think of her. I file that awareness away for later consideration.

“I know because I read about all the horrible things you guys did to one another, and I still love you. A-and I only hope I can handle the challenges in my life the way you did.” 

Tears fill her eyes, and she catches them with her fingertips before they can spill down her cheeks. She hugs me and kisses the top of my head. “You are precious.” Picking up my brush, she lets out a small laugh. “Okay. How do you want your hair?”

After I tell her the style I want and she begins, I launch into the subject I most want to address, “What happened after Sunnydale was destroyed?”

Paying close attention to her reaction, I notice that Willow focuses hard on the lock of hair she’s holding. “You want more than the facts, right?”

“Yes.” My heart skips, and I hold my breath. Finally, I’ll have some straight answers.

“And you know the facts.” 

I nod, and she straightens my head to continue her work. “From what Dad. . . Angel told me.”

“That we came here to L.A. first and that your real father. . .Spike. . . came back.”

“Uh huh. But no one’s ever told me how he came back.” These details are usually glossed over whenever I ask about my parents.

Willow offers up a smile. “That’s because no one really knows how he came back. . . not even Spike could tell us how he came back.”

“What do you mean?” 

She confirms what I’ve been told, “He showed up at Wolfram and Hart three weeks after we arrived. A day later, and we would’ve been gone. We had plans to travel the world and round up all the new Slayers we could find. . . those that hadn’t had the guidance of Watchers and those. . .”

“Whose Watchers were killed but you guys didn’t find before the final battle at the hellmouth,” I finish for her.

“And when he showed up with his soul intact and a spanking new heartbeat, we couldn’t just leave. . . although some of us wanted to.” Willow let a curl spring from the curling iron.

I take an opening when I see one. “How come you couldn’t leave?”

“He was a bit delirious with a fever, and Buffy. . .your mom. . . she insisted that she take care of him until he got better.”

I think I know what Willow’s response will be to my next question, but I ask it anyway, “Was someone against it?”

Willow laughs. “Yeah. A whole lot of. . . people. . .” She raises her eyebrows at the light of fury in my eyes. “And it doesn’t matter who. What matters is that we stayed. And Spike got better.”

“What happened between my parents?”

“You were born a year and a half later,” Willow supplies almost too quickly. She fluffs my hair so that ringlets frame my face. “There. How’s that?”

For once, I’m satisfied with my appearance. “Great! Thanks!” I frown. Is she dodging the subject of my parents once again?

“And you have another surprise.” Auntie Willow tucks a strand of her still vibrant red hair behind her ear, and one corner of her mouth rises. She plunks a small, wrapped package in my lap.

Taken aback and pleased by the gesture, I ask, “What’s this? You already gave me a present.” To remind her, I finger the silver locket she gave me to wear around my neck and attempt to return the new gift. 

Pressing the unopened present further into my outstretched hand, she leans near my ear and whispers, “Don’t tell anyone I gave you that, and open it this afternoon when you’re alone.”

* * *

After lunch, I curl up on my bed with my journal and contemplate the package on my nightstand. Chewing on the end of a pencil, I close the leather-bound book and pick up the parcel. Peeling away the layer of wrapping paper, I reveal a small box.

Tugging off the lid that’s a little too snug, I view a piece of paper and a vial of liquid that’s been wedged in the cardboard container. Unrolling the tiny parchment, I read the words aloud, 

“Drink me.”

I smile. 

Willow’s remembered my favorite children’s book.

Uncorking the tube, I only think once about the possible consequences of another of Auntie Willow’s potions. I shrug. I grew up around adventure; what’s another to me? 

I down the fluid in one gulp.

“Alice down the rabbit hole,” I mutter to myself as a low tingle starts at my toes and rushes up my body in a tidal wave of electricity. Swallowing the urge to scream, I close my eyes as the energy presses up against my skull and overcomes my mind.


	2. Part Two

“Ashley!” 

I don’t recognize the voice that’s saying my name, but it’s the first thing my ears detect as the effects of Willow’s spell dissipate. Other sounds come back in rapid succession like machine gun fire, identified as the distant roll of car engines, the intimacy of quiet chatter, and the hiss of some sort of machine. 

My other senses return when I open my eyes, and I’m assaulted with the intoxicating scent of warm coffee grounds tempered by the cozy elegance of a quaint little coffee shop with walls the color of mahogany and tables and chairs the color of pine trees. A handful of customers litter the chairs, engrossed in the newspaper, a game of chess, or each other. A large picture window next to the glass door provides a glowing, effervescent light to the surroundings.

“Ashley! Aren’t you going to bring that coffee out to the customers before it gets cold?” My eyes fall on the woman standing next to me with her hands on her hips. Her face is painted with a scowl, and her long curly dark hair is pulled up in an attractive bun. Her name tag reads, “Rhonda’s Coffee Spot: Rhonda.” She must be. . . my boss? 

“R-right, right.” I pause and stare down at the two cups on the counter. Then, I glance around at the customers. There are two tables with more than one person. Now which do these belong to? “Um. W-where do I bring them?”

Rhonda rolls her eyes at me, but her tone tells me she’s genuinely concerned about me. “The group by the window. Are you going to be okay? I need to run to the store for more milk.” 

Not trusting my tongue further, I nod. My hands find and grasp the mug handles to prove that I’m fine. A tiny bell tinkles in the background.

“Okay. I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. And get this customer, would you?” Then, she exits through the back room. 

The bell I heard was the signal of another person to serve. Shaking, I toddle with hesitation to my target table. After delivering the goods, I hurry back to the front counter and catch a glimpse of my reflection in the large mirror that hangs over the shop equipment. 

As I peer at myself, I realize that I’m still me. Only where has Willow sent me? And is this all a dream? I spy the telephone and consider calling her.

“Miss?” 

Startled, I whirl to face the new customer I’ve forgotten. I snatch up a pen and the pad of paper next to the register. “Yes?”

The man flashes me with his perfect teeth. “I’d like a cappuccino, with non-fat milk, a double shot of espresso, hazelnut, and whipped cream.”

Jotting everything down hurriedly, I mutter, “I’ll have that right out.”

He opens his wallet, and we exchange stares. “How much?” he asks.

“Um.” My eyes scan the cash register and blur up over the number of buttons. Giving up, I say with a confidence I don’t feel, “Two dollars and seventy-six cents.” There. . . that sounds good.

He gives me a strange look and deposits the money on the counter. I smile and thank him. 

Then, I face my doom. Bloody hell. What now? 

Several minutes pass as I fumble with the coffee machinery. When tears threaten to course down my face, a hand touches my forearm. 

“Need some help?” Something tugs at my memories. 

Sniffing, I say, “No, no, I got it.” I pull on a lever, and the equipment screeches at me. 

“Let me.” And a small form pushes past me before I can protest. 

Golden hair cascades past her shoulders, and the sun has kissed her skin in a way that mine will never be. Her frame is slighter in her white sundress than I recall her being. I guess everyone appears bigger when you’re a child. She winks a green eye at me in the mirror, and my heart almost stops. 

I swallow hard as she makes the man’s drink with ease. 

Grinning, she presents me the finished product. “I worked for a while as a waitress here in L.A.”

“Thank you,” I say with awe more at *who* she is rather than what she’s done. 

My own mother stands before me, and she can’t be much older than me.

“You’re welcome. Mind if I get a cup of coffee?”

I nod in assent. As she pours herself a cup of some sort of Jamaican blend, I manage, “Where are you from?” 

I hold my breath as she answers, “Sunnydale. You’ve probably heard of it on the news lately. You know, the city that was sucked into the ground?”

“Uh huh.” What is going on? Willow, what have you done to me? And *when* am I?

* * *

Days pass. 

I discover several things. One is that I have my own apartment near the coffee shop. The other is that Rhonda is my best friend, and I’ve been working for her for two years. And the third is that it’s 2003, and in Willow’s little universe, time moves differently. On some mornings, I wake up to discover that I’ve skipped several days over night. Who knows, I might wake up tomorrow in the year 2020.

The first couple of “days,” I tried to figure out a way home. I even considered paying a visit to Dad, but I wasn’t sure what to say to them or how they would take my presence in the past. Most likely, they wouldn’t even know me, and I wasn’t sure I could face that. Plus, I remembered the stories about the early days at Wolfram and Hart, and those days weren’t pretty. I certainly didn’t need to be caught up in more confusion.

And in the end, I decided to trust Auntie Willow. 

After all, I am having more contact with my mother than I’ve ever had. She comes to the coffee shop every day, and I work every day. When she’s here, I find myself paying attention to the minutest details as if I can burn them on my brain. 

I do a lot of listening. What is it about a coffee shop that makes people spill their life stories? It’s worse than paying a visit to the hairdresser. People talk to you about the most random. . . and most personal. . . details without filling you in on the missing pieces. Usually, I can figure them out. . . although the random day skipping may contribute to me being at a loss sometimes.

That said, I’m very grateful for the stories she tells me about Dawn, Xander, and the others I’ve heard so little about growing up. The stories are just snippets, but I hold onto them.

“You ever notice how our regulars almost seem like family?” Rhonda whispers in my ear as she brushes by me to clean the tables. I lift an eyebrow at her. Rhonda is one of the kindest people I know. She’s also one of the most honest. . . which is a nice way of saying that she’s blunt.

My mother breezes in the door in that exact instant. “Uh huh,” I reply, snagging a mug and pouring my mother’s usual cup of coffee.

She’s different today. . . my mother. She has worry lines around her eyes that weren’t there yesterday. She slides onto the stool across from me at the front counter. Granting me a forced smile, she says, “Thanks, Ashley.”

I can’t resist. “Something wrong?”

She’s a bit distracted by my question. “Huh? Oh. . . no. . . well, yes.”

“Can’t make up your mind? I have that problem sometimes.”

For a moment, she stares at me as if she recognizes something in me. Then, she glances down. “Yeah. Someone I know. . . I care about. . . is very sick.”

“Oh? What’s wrong?” I hope I don’t appear too eager to hear her answer.

She chews her lower lip. “Well, I haven’t seen him in a while. . . and I thought he was out of my life. You know how that is?”

I say nothing. I can’t believe how effective silence is sometimes. Silence helps me find out things I never would have known. 

She continues in attempt to explain herself, “You know how you think someone is out of your life, and then, suddenly, they aren’t?”

I nod. I can relate. How about the situation I’m in right now?

“Well, there’s this ‘someone’ who is back. He’s really sick.”

I hope she doesn’t hear my heart skipping double time in my chest. I thought I had prepared myself for this moment. 

“What’s wrong with him?” I ask.

So, it isn’t the best question, but I’m not thinking straight.

Before I get an answer, Rhonda rounds the end of the counter, takes one look at Buffy’s face, and reaches for a hug. “Oh, hun, what’s wrong?”

Tears spill over my mother’s lashes at Rhonda’s caring gesture. “Someone I. . . really care about came back and is ill.” 

What a way to say it. Came back? That conveys so little. . . and so much.

“Oh, sweetie, that’s not good.” Rhonda pours herself a cup of coffee and takes a seat next to Buffy. 

“We’re not s-sure what’s wrong with him. But, he has a fever, and he’s kind of delirious.”

“Delirious? Is he in the hospital?” I’m grateful for Rhonda’s interference. 

“No. Well. Where my good friends. . . family. . . work. . . there’s a place to care for him. . . with the supplies and equipment and medicine.”

Rhonda gives a nod of understanding. “So, what do the people caring for him say?” 

“They don’t have a clue.” Tears pose a threat to Buffy’s cheeks again. 

Blinking rapidly, she sighs and stares into her coffee cup. Rhonda pats her on the arm and hands her a tissue from the box under the counter. My mom accepts the fragile bit of paper and crumples it into her hand without using it. 

My heart contracts, and I’m not sure how to feel about seeing my mother so vulnerable. In my memories, a Slayer is an impenetrable force. 

She can’t have cracks. . . even if I did read about enough of them in Uncle Giles’s diaries. 

Maybe all four-year-olds who lose their mothers view them as flawless in their dreams of reunion and numerous moments of “I wish my mom was here.”

Before anyone can say anything else, a loud beeping fills my ears. Three heads shoot up as one. My mom catches a stray tear with her hands and fumbles for her pocket. Slayers don’t generally carry handbags; at least, none of the one’s I know do. They’re kind of inconvenient for patrolling.

Buffy finds her target and produces it with a watery grin, clicking the off button. “Pager. Lost my cell and now I have a pager. The thing never goes off; I didn’t even know if it worked ‘til now.” She slid off the stool. “I better get going. I think it’s something with Spike.” 

I almost jump as my mom says his name for the first time. I’ve never heard her call him by his name. . . always “Daddy” or “him” from the fraction I recall. Rhonda gives me a funny look. I shrug at her. I can’t even begin to explain my reactions to her. She would never believe me. 

In that brief space where I’m distracted by my feelings, Buffy is out the door without a backward glance.

Rhonda catches my pained expression and does something that surprises me. 

Placing her hand on the small of my back, she whispers, “You want to see him, don’t you?”

“W-who?” I gape at Rhonda; the sun is glinting off her curly dark hair, giving her a sort of golden glow. 

“Spike.” I’m mute with shock, and she spells it out for me, “You know, your dad.”

I stumble over my words as I have all day, “W-what are you. . . I mean. . . how. . . .” I clear my throat to gain some semblance of control and prop my hands on my hips. “*Who* are you?”

One corner of Rhonda’s lips rises in a quirky manner that makes me frown harder. “Who do you *think* I am?” 

Indirectness is not something I’ve learned to expect from Rhonda. And more unanswered questions aren’t helping my temper. I’m bloody *sick* of people’s evasiveness. 

Some therapist I’ll make. . . not that I’ve gone to graduate school yet. 

Still, I go with my instincts. “What do you mean? I’m asking you!”

An old man reading his newspaper near the picture window regards us over the tops of his bifocals and rattles his paper to indicate his annoyance. The young couple remains engrossed in one another and ignores everything. Not that I can blame them.

I lower my voice, spelling it out, “Who are you and how do you know who my parents are. . . who my father is?” Searching the depths of her eyes, I ask with suspicion, “Willow?”

Rhonda’s mirth bubbles forth, and an unfettered bout of laughter escapes her lips. She takes a glance at the seriousness of my expression and laughs harder. 

Now I’m really getting pissed, and suddenly, I can’t look at her anymore. I stomp behind the counter and start slamming things around. 

She doesn’t stop me until I break a coffee mug. . . what’s become my favorite coffee mug because it’s the one my mother always uses. “Ashley.” 

She reaches for me, but I step away without thinking. A flicker of hurt crosses her face. I feel guilty and pause, crossing my arms. No way I’m letting her through. 

“What you see in me is what you see in Willow.”

“What’s that?” I grumble. 

“The roots of the magicks that embody our soul.” Her tone and expression are even and soft as if I’m a wild horse that needs taming. 

“So, you’re a witch?”

She smiles. “Something like that.”

Now we are getting somewhere. “How do you know who I am?” 

“I am one who. . .” She changes track in mid-sentence when she catches my defeat. “I know your Willow.”

“You know Auntie Willow? How?”

“I’m a member of a group of witches that your Au. . . Willow started when she moved to England.”

“When I was ten.” I bend to pick up the shards of the broken mug. 

“Right.” Rhonda follows my lead, standing by with the broom and dustpan. For a second, I half expect her to jump on the broom and fly around the room. “And the purpose of our group is to ensure that registered witches practice the magicks in a way that does not significantly change our dimension’s timeline.”

Things are clicking in place as I scoop the last of the ceramic into the dustpan. “Like Cordy did with Anya that time? And like Jonathan did. . .” And we only know about those times because of records at Wolfram and Hart. Just how many times had people close to my mother’s group almost destroyed the. . . my timeline? 

Rhonda confirms my thoughts by not saying anything. When my eyes refocus, she continues, “And I’m here to watch you.”

“So, why didn’t you explain that from the beginning?” 

“Because Willow didn’t plan for you to be here this long. The trigger for your return is having your questions about your parents answered, and she asked me to step in, reveal myself, and facilitate your contact with them so that you can return home.” Rhonda dumps the broken cup into the garbage can. 

“Oh.” The possibilities roll in my head, and I can’t think of any way to get closer to my parents other than striding boldly into Wolfram and Hart and announcing my identity. That’s probably not such a good idea. “How?”

“I’ll work on it from the magicks end, and you’ll take this to Wolfram and Hart.” With a grin, she holds a large object up.


	3. Part Three

Even at night, the door to the old Wolfram and Hart building is warm to the touch as if the fires of hell are issuing one last warning that yes, one is entering a place where evil lurks. My arm is aching with the weight of the huge to-go coffee crate Rhonda fixed for me to take to my mother and her friends. 

The coffee is my excuse for getting in the midst of things and for having my questions answered. Seems rather lame, but at this point, I’m too eager for contact with my parents to argue the logistics of her plan. 

Rhonda left me with a couple of warnings: I must not reveal my identity or get too involved in my parents’ situation. 

Pretty easy, right? 

My body tells me otherwise. My heart is pounding as the smell of the law firm permeates my senses. For some reason, evil always has a particular smell to me. . . like a room that hasn’t been opened for some time. . . with dust and shadows that are undisturbed by the spark of humanity. And yet, the walls are clean and cool blue with bright lights that are supposed to convey that this is a place to find the answers. . . a place of safety. 

Appearances are deceiving, and I wonder how long one has to stay in the midst of evil before he or she forgets what it smells like. . . and feels like.

It’s frigging cold in here! Evil law firm is warm on the outside and cold on the inside? I guess that makes sense. 

And Wesley’s right. . . the law firm’s not evil anymore. . . not in my time. The difference is palpable but hard to describe. It’s just something I *know.* 

Rhonda told me where to go once I enter the law firm, and I use her directions as a mantra for staying calm. Take the right hallway until I can go no further, and then, take the elevators on the left to the fourth floor. The infirmary/science area is located two corridors and two right turns from the elevator exit. 

That’s where I’ll find my parents.

I make the journey without running across a single person or demon, and. . .

Somehow it makes perfect sense that the first person I encounter is Fred. I am not surprised that she still carries herself with the innocence of one who has endured the great darkness of the world. . . has even actively engaged the darkness. . . but remains untouched by it. She does have an edge of nervousness and uncertainty that the Fred I grew up with never had. 

She hurries out of the room ahead of me with a dismayed expression and wide doe eyes and passes me without a backward glance. 

I swallow. What’s she so upset about?

Then, I hear the sounds of dissension from the room Fred’s exited so rapidly.

My mother. . . Buffy and Angel are arguing about something. I’m finding that thinking of the people I care about on a first name basis makes this whole situation easier to comprehend.

I don’t dare confront the situation, so I duck into the quieter room on the left. . . the one with the comforting cover of shadows and dim light. 

Pricking my ears, I hover in the doorway and listen.

“Buffy,” Angel sounds tired, “we can’t bring him to a human hospital. We don’t know what’s going on with him.”

He’s referring to Daddy. . . Spike.

My mother is tiny, but she packs a punch with her words, “You didn’t delay so long with *Cordelia.* You brought her to the hospital right away. And *her* situation was similar.”

Angel is insistent, and he speaks Cordelia’s name with an inflection of intimacy that I’m sure my. . . Buffy doesn’t like, “Cordy’s situation is *very* different. She’s human. . . well, mostly.” 

“Spike’s human,” she says as if this should resolve the argument. 

“We don’t know that. We don’t even know why he’s back. What happened? You and Willow found him stumbling along a roadside in complete delirium. How do we know this isn’t some plot by the First to gain a foothold amongst you again?”

“So? The First thought it would be beneficial to evil to bring you back, and did it work? No.” Is my mother referring to the Christmas in Sunnydale when the First tried to drive Angel insane? I think I read about it in Uncle Giles’s journals.

Angel is quiet for a few seconds, and when he speaks again, his volume drops so low that I have to strain to pick up, “It almost did.”

“You’re getting of the subject here. Fred just said that Spike’s human. And because he’s human, he deserves to go to a hospital. . . a hospital where they treat humans. He *can’t* stay here where they only know how to deal with demons.” She sighs. “You’d think this evil law firm would know how to treat the humans that they so want to corrupt. If you have corrupt humans, wouldn’t you want to keep them alive and healthy? Hey, what are you. . .”

My mother’s rant trickles off, and there is silence. A shadow crosses the doorway just as I realize. . . 

“Who are you?” My dad stands before me, looking exactly the same as he always has. . . only he wears a lot more black in the past. I scan him. Nope. Not a speck of color on him. Maybe his wardrobe’s different now. . . er, in the future because I help him pick his clothing now via numerous Christmas and Father’s Day presents. 

Wait. Something about his face is different, but I can’t discern what’s changed.

I hold up the crate and try to seem nonchalant. I don my best “No, I wasn’t spying on you” smile. “The coffee delivery girl?” My voice cracks. Real smooth Ashley.

“What?” Angel squints as if he can’t quite make me out in the dark. I know better. He’s a vampire.

“Ashley?” Buffy asks, poking her head around Angel’s large frame. I hadn’t realized just how much smaller my mom was compared with my adopted dad. 

“Hey, M-er-Buffy. Rhonda said you ordered some coffee.” 

She smiles at me, and I notice the circles under her eyes are darker and a slight limpness to her hair. She’s been on some kind of vigil. She takes the package from me. “Tell her thanks. I needed it.”

I start toward the door, disappointment plunging into my abdomen. I wanted to see my real father, and now I might not ever get the chance. Or at least, I won’t have the chance today. Although it’s nice to have spent so much time with my mom, I am also a little homesick and ready to get back to the right timeline. “I will.”

I must have looked pitiful because she returns, “Stay.”

Trying not to appear overly excited, I say, “Okay.”

Angel eyes me with suspicion on his face. “*Buffy.*”

I hesitate. “I’m sorry for interrupting your conversation. Do you need me to go?”

Buffy stares evenly at Angel. . . the same stare she used to give me when I was in trouble as a kid. . . from what I remember, that is. “No,” she says, “Angel knows what he has to do.”

My dad turns on his heel and lifts his hands in a half-I-surrender pose. “Fine. I’ll see what I can do.”

Buffy doesn’t bother to remark. That’s one of the cool things about my mom. . . she doesn’t always have to have the last word. “C’mon.” She tilts her head to let me know to follow. “I want to show you something. . . well, someone.”

There’s another doorway to the right. . . a room that looks very much like a hospital room with lots of beeping machines and soft, glowing lights. Don’t know what any of it means, but hey, I’m planning on becoming a psychologist and not a psychiatrist or any other form of medical doctor. Can’t handle the blood and guts or stitching up wounds. I start feeling kinda faint. Although for some reason, demon gore never bothers me. Fred says it’s because I’m sweet, but. . .

My breath being taken away disrupts my thoughts. 

On the hospital bed before me lays my father. . . my *real* father. . . Daddy with his angular cheekbones and soft lips so like mine. 

“This. . . is Spike,” Buffy whispers. “He’s sleeping now, but he woke up for the first time today. His fever’s down, but I still think he needs checking out by the hospital. Something’s wrong with one of his legs, but I’m not happy with the workup he got here.” She sets the coffee on the small table and goes to Spike’s side. 

I drink in the sight of my father’s peaceful face. The answers to my questions about the past are here. “Why hasn’t he been? To the hospital, I mean.”

She brushes aside a curl that’s falling over his forehead. “Well. . .”

Before I can stop myself, I offer, “I know what this law firm’s about.”

She looks up sharply. “What do you mean?”

Oh, boy. I’ve really put my foot in it. Gotta choose my next words carefully. “Well, I’ve. . . heard that the lawyers here deal with supernatural phenomenon.” There. That’s not too bad.

Buffy’s alarms shut off, and she studies Spike’s sleeping face, stroking his arm with light fingertips. “Yeah. I suppose they do have quite a reputation.”

I take a step closer, but then, recognizing my place, I decide to pour my mother some coffee. “So, this is Spike?”

She smiles as she accepts the Styrofoam cup full of steaming caffeinated beverage. “Yes.” Without removing her eyes from him, she confesses, “Since you seem to know about. . . things, I can tell you this.”

I hold my breath.

“He saved the world.”

Darn it. I already know that part! “He did?”

“He did. And he was beautiful when it happened.”

I don’t quite know what to say. The man in the hospital bed isn’t the father I remember. . . the father who raced me through the park and pushed me on the swings. . . the father who danced around the room with me when he caught me dancing with my mother after I was already supposed to be in bed.

I have to know. “Do you love him?” 

She’s quiet for several seconds. Then, “I told him I did.”

My heart is pounding. Good thing she doesn’t have vampire hearing, or I’d be in big trouble with a capital “t.” This is the moment I’ve been waiting for and my ticket home! I press a little more than would be expected from the coffee-shop-girl, “But do you?”

Not removing her eyes from him, she admits, “I’m not sure. We never had the time.”

I feel childish. Grrr. Mom and her stupid non-answers.

However, she continues with unwavering certainty, “But I’m going to find out.”

* * *

I never said what the time shift thing was actually like because it’s always occurred when I’ve been asleep. . . until now. And the experience is nothing like the feeling I got after I drank Auntie Willow’s potion. I honestly don’t know which is worse.

As soon as my mom finished her sentence, my stomach twists as if the organ is being torn out of its rightful place and down through my body. A wave of dizziness and vertigo sweeps through my system, and my parents’ forms turn one hundred and eighty degrees in my brain as some kind of pressure shoves down on the crown of my head. My legs buckle beneath me, and I close my eyes to block out the distorted vision. 

When I think I won’t be able to stand any more force, the strain remits, and I find myself standing again with bright sunlight creating red streaks on the underside of my eyelids. 

“Ashley!” Rhonda’s voice calls. 

I very nearly shriek and curl up in a defensive little ball, but instead, I take a chance and open my eyes to the world again. The aroma of espresso beans and coffee is my next link to reality.

“I’m here,” I announce as if she didn’t already know. I pivot and plant my hands on my hips. “What the hell was that all about?”

Rhonda shrugs and places a palm on the counter. “I don’t control when your shifts occur, hun, but I did speed them up.”

“Oh. And that’ll help me, how?”

“By getting you to what you want to know faster. In fact, you might be interested in what’s going on over there. . .”

“What do you mean?” I follow the direction of her nod. “Ohhh,” I breathe.

Buffy, Angel, and Willow are here in the coffee shop. 

They’re talking in low whispers, but their body language tells me that they are serious. Aunt Willow’s forehead is creased in her usual “worry” expression, and she clutches a coffee mug in both her hands. 

Angel is seated on the stool closest to her, and he wears that same sadness that I see even now in his expression. . . the sadness I never understood. Suddenly, I realize that the unhappiness is what’s different from the last time I met him at Wolfram and Hart. The discontent is distinctive from the brooding that Giles described in the Watcher’s Diaries. I’m still not quite sure what to make of it.

And my mom balances on the stool across from them. . .separate from them. Her arms rest on the table. From a distance, she emanates a quiet confidence. . . even if her feet don’t quite touch the bottom rung of the stool. (Rhonda has very tall stools in the coffee shop.) A brilliant spot of joy permeates my chest when I glimpse the tiny swell in the region of her abdomen.

That’s me!

“Do you want to hear what they’re saying?” Rhonda asks in a low voice. 

I don’t think I can form words at this point, so I nod.

“This will just be in your head. Why don’t you have a seat over there, so you can listen and watch.”

I obediently hurry to the stool at the coffee bar and sit sideways so that they won’t think I’m staring at them. . . although I really really want to. 

And then, their voices are in my head as if someone flipped a switch in my brain. 

“You really should have more tests done. . . more than just what the hospital does,” Willow says with tired urgency in her tone as if she’s been making the same point for the last several hours. For all I know, she has been.

My mother shakes her head, “No. Spike only got better after I took him to the *regular* hospital myself. . . after all the fancy-schmancy magick-based technologies were done on him.”

“But this is different,” Willow insists. 

“How is it different?”

“Uhh,” Willow sighs in exasperation. “It just *is.* The baby’s special.”

I smile to myself. I’m special. My auntie always told me that growing up, and even now, it makes me feel. . . loved, and I’m technically not even born yet. 

My mom’s hand goes to her stomach in a protective gesture that I barely catch out of the corner of my eye. “Baby’s just a normal baby born of two human beings.”

Angel speaks then, and he sounds. . . jealous. “How did you manage to get pregnant anyway? Spike’s been an invalid since he came back.”

Buffy retorts, “The old fashioned way. Duh. And if you were any less buried in your work at that. . . law firm, you would know that Spike’s not quite an ‘invalid’ anymore. He’s walking perfectly fine.”

Willow nods. “Yeah. He’s ditched the wheelchair in favor of a smashing cane.”

“Makes him look all distinguished.” Buffy’s posture perks up a little higher along with the corners of her mouth.

Angel glares at my mom and aunt. Even from this far away, I can witness his glower. “Is he living with you?” 

“Um. How is that any of your business?” 

“I’m just trying to protect you from my grandchilde, Buffy. And from the forces of evil that *will* try to get your child. And they will, you know. And then, you won’t get to see him take his first step or hear him say his first word. First thing you know, he’ll come back and try to kill everyone you love because a man whose family you slaughtered in your past was transported from the future to destroy everything you love because a demon is afraid your son will kill him. . .” 

My dad *has* to be talking about Connor, but Buffy and Willow don’t know anything about him yet. There’s a whole amnesia thing going on. 

Buffy interrupts Angel’s confusing rant, “If *anything* I need protection from the person running an *evil* law firm!” 

Now that last exclamation I could hear without Rhonda’s inner brain speakers. 

There’s a thoughtful pause as Buffy processes Angel’s rambling. “And huh?”

“Buffy,” Willow hisses, glancing around. “Now both of you, stop it. You’ve both made your points.”

Buffy and Angel remain silent.

“But neither of you are focusing on the real issue.”

“Which is?” Buffy asks. 

“Well, Angel sort of hinted at it before he. . .” Willow frowns at him, “. . . well, before. There will be other forces. . . evil forces who will try to steal the baby of a Slayer and ex-vampire. And because the baby is a child of an ex-vampire and Slayer, who knows what powers he or *she* will possess. If you let me do some more magically-oriented tests. . .”

“*No,*” my mom states.

Angel seems lost in his own thoughts, and he confirms my hypothesis when he asks in a hurt voice, “Buffy, do you love Spike?”

My mother opens her mouth. . . just as the door to the coffee shop bangs open and in walks. . . my real father.

His platinum blond curls are neatly combed back, and he’s dressed in jeans and a navy blue shirt. He hobbles a bit with the slender black cane, but he’s whole. His skin is slightly darker than when I last saw him as if the sun has blessed him with her touch, and his eyes stand out in a more vibrant blue when he nods to me. My heart skips a beat. My dad. . . Daddy just acknowledged my presence. 

Then, the moment is gone, and he joins my mother, pulling up a stool to be close to her. He greets her with a gentle kiss to her temple and runs a hand over her stomach, letting Angel and Willow know what’s the what. 

Wow. 

I feel just as I did the moment Wesley handed me the Watcher’s Diaries. I’ve been handed a gift. . . a moment to view my real father again. 

“Spike,” Angel manages. “You’re doing better, I see.”

“I am, mate. Much better. Sorry I’m late. I got held up at physical therapy.” I don’t recall his accent being quite so. . . British. Then again, my memory of his voice is a bit faded. “Let me get some coffee before you go any further.”

“Didn’t know you were a coffee drinker, Spike,” Angel jibes. Gosh, my adopted dad is so. . . resentful. I almost can’t believe it’s actually him. He’s never acted that way around me.

“Not a lot you know about me, of late.” My father turns and heads my direction.

Alarm bells zing through my brain. I think my throat might close off. 

And he’s looking directly at me.

What do I do? Why is he staring at me? Did he figure out who I am?

I hop off my stool and stand toe to toe with him. . . my real father. I’m taller than my mother but definitely still shorter than him, and up close, I just *know* we’re related on a visceral level. I long to touch him. . . just briefly, but I don’t dare. 

“I’ll have a cup of coffee. That’s it. No fancy espresso,” are his first words to me in seventeen years, only he doesn’t know that.

Glancing down at myself, I grasp that I am on duty. “S-sure. Can I interest you in a pastry?” Fumbled start. Mediocre come back.

"No, thanks."

I circle the coffee bar, grab a coffee mug with shaking hands, and ask, “Regular or decaf?”

“Leaded.”

He remains quiet as I fill his cup and position it before him. I’m very proud that I don't slosh any. “Here you are.” I bite hard on my cheek to prevent from calling him “Daddy” and tackling him over the bar with my embrace. Nope, no hugs for Ashley.

But I so want him to touch me. . . to somehow. . . 

“Do I know you from somewhere?” He tilts his head to one side and regards me with the softest expression. . . an expression akin to my blurry black-and-white memory of his face when he sat at my bedside after a nightmare or had his first glimpse of me after he came home from whatever he did during the day.

I chew on the inside of my cheek to keep the tears at bay. I just can’t say no, so I shake my head and use the gesture to focus on the money in his hand. His warm fingers brush over mine as he releases the bill, and I linger as long as I can. 

The contact is over before I’m ready, and I have trouble punching the buttons on the cash register. Thank heavens for modern technology because the correct change to pull out of the drawer pops up on the display, and I don’t even have to think. 

I pass over the requisite amount, and when I reach out, he holds my hand briefly in his. I’m too startled to pull away, and I don’t know if I’d want to anyway.

“There’s something about you, pet,” he says, catching my eyes with his twin ones. 

“I don’t know.” I laugh.

“No, there is,” he insists. “Don’t ever lose it.”

A calm settles over me. “I won’t. Thank you. Really.”

He ducks his head to take a sip of coffee. He lifts the mug to me. “Good stuff. Thanks.”

And then, he’s heading back to the table.

The trembling returns, and I lean against the bar as I try focus in on their conversation once again. 

There’s an awkward silence as my father rejoins his party, and then, Spike speaks again, addressing Buffy and ignoring the others, “All right then. Then, “Let’s get straight to the point of this little meeting that they started without me, which I think is bloody unfair considering the state you’re in.” 

He points his index and middle finger at Willow and then Angel. “Red and Angelus here want us to be apart, so they’ve devised a clever scheme about the baby needing some sort of magick tests in the name of protecting the baby from harm so they can get us together and let us know that what they’re really uncomfortable with is the notion that we’re together. They don’t give a fig about the baby’s health.”

Willow and Angel stare at my father in bewilderment.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Spike asks. 

Good thing they aren’t paying attention to me. My jaw is on the floor. This is definitely not the Daddy I remember. At least, now I know where I got my passion and ability to quickly assess situations and respond. I wasn’t top debater in my high school for no reason.

Willow raises her hand as if she’s a student in class again. . . a student who knows she has the wrong answer to the question. . . or an answer the teacher doesn’t want to hear. “Actually, it’s not just Angel and me.”

Spike claps his painted wooden cane on the tabletop, making me jump a bit. Coffee roller-coasters over the edge of the cups. “So, it’s the whole lot of you, then? The Scoobies and the. . . what do you call your little group of wannabe demon-fighters? Oh, right. You run Wolfram and Hart now. You have a whole horde of demons that are your clients now. The tables have turned, and you’re working for the other side.”

“We’re affecting the other side in a positive way by working from within.” Angel’s counterargument sounds weak even to me.

Spike’s voice gets louder, “So, what? Buffy and I are supposed to stand back and *let* you do what you want to the child when the very demons you supposedly want to protect us from could sneak up behind you from within your inner circle. I don’t think so.”

Willow tries to quiet him by almost whispering, “Um, like I said, it’s not just Angel and his. . . team.”

“I believe he included everyone else, including Giles and the others,” my mother says, placing a hand on Spike’s forearm to calm him down. “Giles and Xander were too scared to say anything to us themselves, right? I know Dawn’s fine with it, but she’s conveniently off at university in England.”

“No, they just wanted two of us to talk with you. . . to lessen the impact of being confronted by everyone else,” Willow explains, removing her hands from her coffee mug at last. 

“What if we do this,” Buffy adds tiredly, “what if instead of arguing about this, we compromise.”

Willow waits for several seconds, and then, she shrugs. “I guess I agree.”

They look at the two males in the group. Grudgingly, they each nod.

“All right. I’ll do the tests you want, Willow. . . *if* you get the others to back down about Spike and me. I *know* you think we’re not good for each other. . . look at what happened last time. But, I think that this time, we’re both a lot different, and we want to try again. . . we’re lucky enough to get to.”

Spike speaks again, “The other condition is that no Wolfram and Hart will be involved in whatever Red believes is necessary to do.”

And then, I’m swept away by the weight of the shift. And just when things were getting interesting.


	4. Part Four

This Ashley-in-Wonderland bit is getting to be quite tedious. . . as Uncle Giles would put it. When the crushing feelings subside and my senses come back to life, I slowly open myself to a sensory assault. . . that never comes.

In fact, I’m back in the dark. . . literally and figuratively.

I’m definitely not in the coffee shop or at Wolfram and Hart. And I’m sitting, not standing. My knees are almost against my chest. 

I scoot my feet forward and encounter something in front of me. My hands go back behind me in an effort to balance myself out, and I touch another object. . . a shoe? A very masculine shoe.

Wrinkling my nose in confusion, I reach in front of me. Another set of shoes, but they’re a pair of high. . . really high heels. 

A faint giggle fills my head. 

Great. Now I’m hallucinating on top of everything else in a tiny space with two pairs of shoes. 

Then, the sound comes again. . . louder and definitely outside my head. 

Then, it dawns on me. I know where I am! I’m in the living room closet at my house. . . and that laugh. . . belongs to my mother. (The closet! Thanks a lot, Rhonda.)

Buffy’s voice confirms what I thought I heard, “Stop it! Stop it now, Spike! I-I command you!”

I press my ear to the closed door, anxious to hear my father’s response. “You command *me*?” 

A faint rustle ensues followed by a high-pitched shriek. . . a shriek like my own. 

“S-s-s-stop. . . that tickl. . .” Buffy screeches again. 

“What? This?” 

“Y-yes!” 

Now I *have* to see what they’re doing. Maybe my stomach should be turning at the thought of my parents being intimate, but I don’t really have a clear picture in my mind of their closeness. How close were they? They had me, but lots of people have kids and don’t really give a rat’s ass for each other. 

What little I’ve seen so far isn’t enough, especially of my dad. 

But I also recognize no matter how much information I gather about my parents, it won’t ever be enough to make up for what I missed out on if I had grown up with them. 

With that thought, I reach up for the doorknob, turn the cool metal, and crack the closet door. My parents are directly in my line of sight, but they won’t be able to catch me because there are no lamps nearby.

There are no lamps lit anywhere at all.

A handful of candles clusters on the coffee table, and my parents have spread an old sheet over the warped wood and laid out what’s probably supposed to be a fancy dinner for them. They don’t have much, but they’re snuggled together on one side of the coffee table. 

I drink them in.

My father is trying to lift my mother’s shirt in an effort to get in another good tickle. . . or maybe something else, and she’s squirming and pushing on him.

“No!” she says, gripping his errant hand and widening both her eyes at him.

He freezes at the anger on her face.

But then, she bats her eyelashes at him. . . or at least I think she does. It’s hard to tell in the candlelight.

“Minx,” he comments, reaching up to unclasp her upswept hair so that it falls loose around her shoulders. 

She smiles. “That’s me.”

“I like your hair down. It glows even in the candle light.”

“And so does yours.” Unexpectedly, her hand rumples his hair and lets loose a smattering of curls. “There. All better.”

“Ha, ha, pet.” He sounds annoyed, but I can tell he’s smiling.

“Should we eat before it gets cold? I’m starved.”

“No.”

“No?” She gives him a quizzical look. 

“First, I have to say what an amazing woman you are.” I don’t even have to make out his face to know his words are genuine.

“Oh. First, you have to make a speech.” She plants her hands in her lap. “Goodie, I like your speeches. . . as opposed to mine. . . . Don’t *even* say it.”

He grins. “Did I say anything?”

“No. Pretend I didn’t say that. Continue please.” She leans toward him expectantly.

“Okay. Where was I?” He points his elbows outward and emulates her lean with his hands on his thighs.

“I’m amazing.”

“Oh, right. And beautiful.”

“There’s that, too. Go on.”

“You know you have to do this in a minute, too, love.”

“I do, and I’m all prepared. Practiced in the mirror and everything.”

“Good for you.” Spike takes a deep breath. “And you’re. . .”

A baby’s cry fills the air. 

Wait a minute, that’s me! I keep having these moments when I’m completely surprised that I’m part of their lives.

Buffy springs to her feet. “I’ll get her. She’s going to be hungry.”

“Okay, love.”

My mother’s back with me before I have time to process that I’m about to view myself. Cradling me against her chest, she slowly lowers herself next to my father and shifts me so that he can watch me. 

“I never get over how beautiful she is,” he breathes, reaching his index finger out so that my tiny digits can latch onto him. 

“She is. She looks just like her father.”

“Buffy, love, we did this.” He stops. “Are you glad that we had her even though we didn’t exactly plan for her?”

I was an accident? I had never known that.

My mother parts her blouse and brings the baby to her chest. When the baby’s settled, she reacts to his query, “Of course, I am! When was I ever going to get the chance to. . . ? I’m a Slayer. We don’t normally get to have children. There’s usually no time or energy for a child, but because there are plenty of Slayers out there, I think I may have some spare time available.” She studies him. “Do you think I’ll be a good mother?”

“Why do you ask that, love?”

“I worry sometimes,” she admits. 

“You’re going to be. . . you are a bloody brilliant mother.” 

“You think?”

Spike brings one leg around Buffy so that she’s nestled against him, and he places a hand on the baby’s. . . my back, cradling his family close. “I *know* so.”

The pressure hits with no warning, and I think I might really have screamed this time. I don’t even have time to worry about the consequences.

* * *

Bright light again infiltrates my vision, but this time, the radiance has to be turned from like a ray of sunlight slicing off the windshield of a car on a hot summer day. 

“Hi,” a small voice says from below me. 

I slit my lids. “Hello?”

“What’s your name? I’m Ashley.”

I choke. “W-what?”

“I asked your name. You’re pretty.”

I’m staring at the miniature version of myself. Scanning my surroundings, I recognize the park where I used to play with Uncle Gunn and his then girlfriend after my parents died. I drink in the same swing set, same park benches, same merry-go-round where Uncle Gunn used to spin me until I got dizzy and hopped off to try and walk straight. 

I study mini-me. I don’t remember that my blond hair was wavy or that my eyes were such a vivid blue or that I had quite so many freckles. I do recall being precocious for a four-year-old. . . precocious enough to talk with strangers and get myself in trouble. I’m not sure how much I should say, especially after the warning Rhonda gave me about timelines. “You’re pretty, too. Where’re your Mommy and Daddy?”

She smiles then. (I decide to deem her separate from myself, or I’ll get too confused.) “Thank you. They’re over there. . . they like to talk after our picnics. Then, Daddy plays with me while Mommy studies for school. She’s going to an uni. . . uni. . .”

“University?”

“Yeah!”

At the beginning of my adventure, I would have asked her what my mother was studying, but I’m finding myself less interested in the specifics. . . just the broad strokes. She probably doesn’t know anyway; I certainly don’t remember. “Let’s go find your parents.”

She bends over to pick a tiny flower. . . the kind that’s actually a weed. She holds the bloom up for me to inspect. “I picked a flower for my Mommy. Hold it for me.”

“Okay.” 

She places the flower in my palm with reverence, and then, she reaches up and takes my other hand. The tiny fingers are warm against my cool ones, and I feel strange holding my own hand. 

“Ready,” she says. “They’re over here.” She starts walking. Then, “Do you know how to skip?”

I nod. “Uh huh.” 

“Me, too. I like to skip. Want to?” She peers up at me with a tiny smile on her face. . . a smile that must work all the time with her parents or she wouldn’t do it.

I can’t resist either. “All right.”

And we skip. At first, I feel a little silly because I’m so much bigger than her and her bounces are smaller. 

But then, I close my eyes and go with the moment. . . until I start thinking about what might happen if I show up. . . the other Ashley from the coffee shop with little Ashley in tow. We look too much alike.

Before I can decide what to do, the little me says, “Mommy and Daddy are over there. I think they must be fighting again.”

I glimpse my parents under the trees. She’s right. Even at a distance, their body language screams tension. 

I squat down on the ground next to myself and force myself to look into her wide blue eyes. Why don’t you go play over there on the swings while I see what’s going on.”

Serious for a moment, she bobs her head solemnly. “Okay. I’ll be good.”

Smiling, I say, “Of course you’re good.”

And then, she’s off, running for the swings, small legs pumping, hair flying loose and free, and laughter floating back behind her. 

She doesn’t know what’s about to happen in her life. Tears form in my eyes. She’s about to lose her parents.

I turn back toward Buffy and Spike.

Only this time, I’ll know what really happened. . . maybe.

The park is empty except for my family, but there are enough trees around the picnic area that I can safely hide from my parents without rousing their attention. I place my palms against my chosen tree and feel the roughness of the bark against my skin. I close my eyes, closing out the world except for their voices.

“You’re crazy,” my mom says.

“But we figured it out, pet. Angel’s in trouble with the Circle of the Black Thorn or whatever lame name they’re currently going by. We can’t just ignore his call for help or let his people die.” His voice ebbs a bit as if he’s pacing, and I hear crunching grass.

“Since when did you care what happened to them? Aren’t they the ‘Lesser Scoobies’?” 

The noise of pacing ceases, and he says, “I care because you care about them. . . about. . . him. And you’ve been doing nothing but worrying since he started getting in deeper with Wolfram and Hart. . . when he stopped all communication with Giles and the others. . . after the last incident with the umpteenth hell beastie he didn’t take care of properly in his firm. Admit it. You go out patrolling a lot when you can’t sleep. . . and when you aren’t throwing yourself into training Slayer Juniors.”

Buffy’s slow to respond, but then, she does, “I d-do care.”

“I know you do, love, which is why we get us a team of the little girls, and we take out the Circle. . . one by one. Rid the world of some more evil and rescue Angel and his lot to boot. . . now that we know what’s controlling him. I know I’m itching for a good fight.”

“*You* have to be careful, which is why *if* we do this, you’ll stay with Ashley.”

“I’m always careful,” Spike shoots back. “And Dawn can look after Ashley. She’s on break.”

My mom ignores his comment about Dawn. “You’re human now. You’ve been human for four years out of over one hundred. You don’t know your own weaknesses.”

“I’m trained enough to take you down. . . even at full Slayer strength. And I was human for longer than four years, love. I know my weaknesses. Trust me.”

Silence.

“You’re right,” my mother finally acknowledges. 

“’Bout time you said so.” I can almost envision my father’s grin. 

Buffy suddenly sounds sad, “This is going to be one of those apocalyptic battles.” She pauses. “And if something happens to you, I’ll kill you, you know.”

“I’m counting on it.”

She turns her feelings into a joke, “Then, Ashley will have no father, and she’ll kill me for taking her Daddy away.”

Then, my mother bursts into tears. This time her tears don’t bother me. I’m kinda getting used to the cracks. She’s my mother, but she’s human, too.

I can’t resist peeking at them then. Spike. . . my father takes my mother into his arms and strokes her back, murmuring soothing sounds. . . sounds I remember him making when I had a nightmare and woke up in tears. My mother clings to him and cries until she has no more tears left. 

Then, he says with a lump in his throat, “Is it so hard to say out loud?”

She pulls back. “What?”

“How you feel.” He’s not backing down now. 

“About what?”

“Us. Ashley and me.”

The breeze lifts the ends of her hair. She swallows. “I never say it, do I?”

Now, he can’t meet her gaze. “No. No, you don’t.” 

Sliding one arm from around his waist, she brings her hand up to stroke his cheek and lift his chin so that he has to view her. She doesn’t try to make excuses or attempt to explain why she doesn’t express herself. 

She simply says, “Sweet William, I do love you. You know that, right?”

His eyes shift heavenward, and the sunlight slips through the tree branches to highlight the sheen of unshed tears. He doesn’t reply.

And my mother is desperate, tightening her arm around his waist and tugging him closer, “You do believe me? Spike?”

Several seconds pass before he smiles down on her. “I love you, too.”

She kisses him. . . briefly as if to seal the agreement of their feelings. Pressing her forehead to his, she says, “And I promise to start saying it a lot more after we make it through this fight.”

He laughs, a laugh that blends tears and joy, and I feel hot tears gliding over my own cheeks. “I’ll hold you to it, pet. . . but how about before?”

She matches his laugh with her own. “Okay. I *love* you. How’s that?” 

He pretends to ponder her question, “Hmmm. Just about perfect, I think.”

“You didn’t say it back,” she pouts.

He smirks at her. “Figure I deserve a few unreturned ones.”

“Fine.” She starts to turn away in mock rejection.

But in this moment, he can’t stand even play, so he grabs her elbow and brings her in for a deep and tender kiss. He whispers his next words, but the breeze carries them my way so that I don’t have to miss them. . .

“I love you, too.”

They stay in their embrace for what seems like forever. . . or at least I wish it could be. My heart is full. They’re my family, and they love each other.

My mother finally says, “We better get going. We have an Angel to rescue.”

Her voice begins to fade, and my body starts to tingle with a familiar electric energy . . . 

Crap. Guess I’m going home. I thought I wanted to go, but now, I’m not sure how I feel about that.

* * * 

I open my eyes, feeling more rested and fulfilled than I have in days. . . weeks even. Auntie Willow is hovering over me with a concerned expression on her face. 

“Thank God, I mean, Goddess,” she says in a relieved breath. “You’re awake. I wasn’t sure you’d wake up in time.”

I’m confused. “In time for what?”

“Your graduation, silly girl.” She points to the hunter green graduation gown hanging on my closet door. “You just have a couple of hours to get ready.”

“B-but I was gone. . .” I look around for a trace of the gift Willow gave me and find nothing except for my familiar bedroom. “Was it all. . .”

“A dream?” She shakes her head. “No, Ashley. It wasn’t. I just cleared away the packaging in case someone came by and saw it.”

“So everything was true? It really happened?”

“Yes, it did. And thank goodness, I contacted Rhonda to help me facilitate or you wouldn’t have been back in time. Open your hand.”

“Oh oh!” The weed-flower four-year-old me picked for my mother is smashed against my palm, juices smeared over the creases in my skin. Then, I realize what else Auntie Willow just said about time. I’m flustered as my mind races back to recall what happened right before the potion. Guess time went faster within the spell. “How’s my hair?”

“Still pretty from this afternoon. Get dressed. I’ll leave you be.” She heads for the door.

“Auntie Willow?” 

She pauses, hand on the doorknob. “Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

She smiles, eyes lighting. “You’re welcome. Were your questions answered?” 

“Not all of them.” I bite my lower lip. “But that’s okay. I’m cool without knowing what happened to everyone in minute detail.” I’m extremely grateful I didn’t have to witness either of my parents’ death.

“It was enough then?”

“Yeah. I learned a lot. I think I’ll be processing it for a while.”

“Good. I’m glad I could help.” She starts to close the door. 

“Auntie Willow? I think I may drive my own car to the ceremony. I have one place to go before. . .”

She knows. I can tell from the way she nods her head only once in understanding.

Then, she’s gone.

* * *

He’s in his office at work as usual, back to the doorway, lights dark. He has no papers on his desk, and no books on his shelves. No pictures adorn the walls. . . everything is stark.

For the first time. . . ever, I feel a little afraid being in his presence. It’s not because of what I’ve read about him. 

The fear is somehow familiar. I think it’s the same fear I felt when Aunt Dawn came home from college early. She sat me down in the safety of my bedroom and took my hands in each of hers. Then, she told me that Mommy and Daddy weren’t ever coming home and that my parents’ last wish was that I would remain in Los Angeles and live with Angel. I think I cried for three straight days. . . or at least it seemed like I did in my child’s mind. 

I was afraid of the unknown. . . of what would happen to me. 

I don’t always understand my parents’ decision to leave me with him. As an adult looking back, I know they couldn’t place me with Giles or Willow or Xander or Dawn or Faith because they were busy with their own duties. . . duties that required extensive travel or left little time for them to give me the attention a child needed. My parents knew enough about the one they left me with to know that I’d be kept safe. . . that he and his would learn from their past failings and remain constant for me.

And my parents were right to place their faith in him. 

I don’t always understand him. 

However, now I think I understand him a little better. He was my second father, and I was his second chance at raising a child.

I think I can begin to fathom the thoughts and feelings he must have to deal with every day when he wakes up. 

I’m sad for him. . . sad for my parents. . .sad for me. 

I’m pretty sure there’s a little anger mixed in there, too.

After all, my parents and a handful of Slayers traded their lives so that Fred and Gunn and Wesley might live. . . so that he might live.

I want to distract him. . . and me from those thoughts and feelings. . . even just for a little bit. For some reason, that thought makes me feel older and maybe just a tad wiser.

So, I approach him as quietly as possible even though he already knows I’m there. . . knew as soon as I crossed the threshold. 

Circling the desk, I trace my fingers over the fine, old polished grain. It has a few nicks and dents from the time I was doing an art project at the desk and accidentally scratched the surface with my scissors. 

I settle on one of his knees and survey him. 

The corners of his mouth lift slightly as soon as I touch him, but the sorrow doesn’t lift from his eyes. 

“Hey, Miss Graduate. What are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be on the way to the ceremony?”

“Aren’t you?” I raise both my eyebrows at him.

“I was about to get out of here.” He swivels slightly and traces his finger over the edge of the desk. “You know I wouldn’t miss it, right?”

“I know. And I don’t know what I’d do if you did.”

His eyes widen in mock fear. “Should I be worried about any pencils?”

I laugh. “No. Not this time anyway.” I do have a tendency to leave my pencils around the house. . . still do from time to time. Hey, I like to have writing instruments around. . . I never know when I might have an important thought that I don’t want to get away from me. And I don’t like pens. . . I can’t erase with a pen. 

His smile widens but not into a full-blown grin. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen him smile the way my real father did. 

But, still. . . 

I throw my arms around his broad shoulders and hug him tightly. “I love you, Dad.”

His hand goes to my back, and he hugs me back. “I love you, too.”

I bury my face against his collarbone and inhale his scent. He’s home to me. “You know I know now, right?” I say in a muffled voice.

He stiffens but accedes, “I do.”

“I know you beat yourself up about it, but. . .” I take a deep breath and finish my thought, “it’s not your fault. What happened to my parents. It’s not your fault.” 

He says nothing. . . doesn’t even make a sound.

I clear my throat and continue awkwardly, “And I’m glad they rescued you and Aunt Fred and Uncle Gunn and Wesley. I don’t know what I’d do without you guys in my life. So, even though I miss my parents sometimes, I’m very grateful to have you.”

I draw away from him when he still doesn’t utter a word. I’m quite surprised to find that his cheeks are damp, and then, he smiles. . . the widest smile I’ve ever seen him smile.

Glancing at the clock, I realize that I have to get moving, or I won’t make it to graduation. “I have to go.” 

I hate that I have to go.

“Let’s get you graduated,” he says, bumping me off his lap.

Angel keeps the same happy expression, and although I know he might not always be full of mirth, I’m content for the moment to bask in his momentary joy. 

Funny what you discover when you look for the truth. I might not have my parents, but I know they loved each other and me. And because they loved. . . because they cared, they provided me a whole other family. . . even if unwittingly. More than that, they and the others in their lives gave me the capacity to love, to understand, and to forgive. I know I won’t be perfect. . . or even good at it, but I can try, and that’s a start. 

The end.

(complete, 4-8-05)


End file.
